


In which Eridan fucks up Karkat and Equius' kismesissitude

by Mandibles



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, M/M, Quadrant Confusion, quadrant flipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And there is angst, because, again, I can't not write angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Eridan fucks up Karkat and Equius' kismesissitude

This is something of fucking troll Shakespeare. Or even, fuck, troll Desperate Housewives.

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS and your KISMESIS fucking went and CHEATED ON YOU.

You can't fucking believe this. You can't. Fucking. Believe. This.

The initial shock from you bursting into his hive unannounced leaves Zahhak's face and is replaced by a hard frown to counter your warbled angrish. He patiently waits for you to form coherent sentences by continuing to wind thick bandages around the skinned flesh of his forearm, spots of royal blue seeping through the fabric on contact. And, it pisses you off because 1. you're his kismesis, you're the who should have caused those bruises and cuts, and 2. you're his kismesis, you should be the one patching him up afterward. Instead, he's bandaging himself in a chair in a dark corner of his hive like a criminal. Which he is.

“You . . . cheated on me,” you finally manage, stringing the words together with some difficulty. “You sweaty, grub-humping, masochistic—”

“Why would you assume that I betrayed our kismesissitude?” Equius grits, his tone that growl saved for, you thought, only his kismesis, only you. “For all you know, I could have been attacked by a very large pouncebeast or I could have . . .” The “I could have done this to myself,” hangs heavily in the air.

You suddenly feel very stupid (and, shockingly, relieved). You take a breath. Did you honestly think that Zahhak, loyal as he is to the hemospectrum and troll culture, would actually grow the shameglobes to cheat? Besides, he's such a stupid, groveling fuck that the whole idea seems ridiculous now that you think about it—

Or not.

“What the hell is that?”

Zahhak turns that dark, dark shade of blue and looks right at it, the nooksucking prick. You didn’t even have to point it out to him.

Yet he still tries to lie. “That . . . That is . . .”

“Looks like a hand to me,” you growl, stomping forward. Zahhak hisses when you squeeze the bruise on his arm. It’s thicker, but the general shape matches your grip. You glare at him, but you can barely see him through the greasy curtain of hair. “Who?” you demand.

“It’s none of your concern.”

“What? Of course it is; you’re my fucking kismesis. Who is it?”

A pregnant silence falls over you. You glare as Zahhak chews at his lip. 

Then, he mumbles, “It isn’t my place to—” and you know right then that it’s a highblood. You suddenly lose a lot of air. For a fleeting moment you think Gamzee, but just as quickly quell that horror. He’s been so doped up on sopor lately, you doubt he could do harm much harm to himself; he’s in no state to perform any kismesis duties, as far as you are concerned. Feferi? You doubt she could have caliginous relationship with Zahhak. In fact, you’ve hardly seen them interact, Zahhak too intimidated by her blood. Then, who . . . ?

Ampora.

ERIDAN AMPORA.

“You’ve been cheating on me with Eridan?!” 

Zahhak has the decency to flinch, but that could be because you accidentally clutched the hand-shaped bruise. Before you can demand more about his infidelity, he looks up and does this thing with his face that leaves you speechless. He doesn't have his stupid sunglasses, you realize, and you're floored by the heaviness in grey irises.

It's why when Zahhak says, “I did not cheat on you, Vantas,” you find it difficult not to believe him. 

Silence falls as you stare at each other. Then, you put two and two together and drop Zahhak's arm.

For the first time in a long time, you lose track of your voice. It takes you an extra second to uncover it. “Then, he just . . . ?”

“I did express my discomfort in Ampora's advances,” Zahhak confirms, tone borderline accusatory. As guilt chokes you once again, he continues, “He did not do much damage, thanks to my STRENGTH. However . . .” He gingerly lifts his shirt and you spot on his side an ugly gash, a burn, gooey with blue blood, and—

Ahab's Crosshairs.

“Fuck.”

You're at his side before you realize, your hand replacing his, holding up his shirt. Stained bandages hang loosely around his torso, a past attempt of Zahhak trying to put himself back to rights. You pull them out of the way and tenderly brush the wound with your fingers. 

“Why didn't you say anything? You should have told me!” 

Zahhak raises his eyebrows. “Since my kismesis is a hotheaded imbecile who jumps to conclusions—” You twitch, but are glad for the reminder of your kismesissitude. “—I figured that my moirail's assistance would prove adequate.”

You resist the urge to dig your fingers into his burn. “And, did you contact Nepeta?” you ask in place of the expletives you want to spit.

There are flushed cheeks and a thin sheen of sweat. “I—well, no, I decided against it.”

“Of course.” High and mighty hypocritical dick. You straighten and wipe your hands on your trousers. The situation has returned to familiar territory, so your voice is strong when you bark, “Get up.”

Zahhak frowns. “Pardon?”

“Get. Up. I can't fix your shit patch-up job with you on your ass.”

Your kismesis opens his mouth to argue, but the sweat rolling down his face tells that he's getting off of the command like the sick fuck he is. Needless to say, Zahhak eventually hoists himself up and though he towers over you, his face shows nothing but the eagerness to obey. You cringe.

(Something pulls at your chest, but is easily brushed off.)

With a sigh, you swipe up the roll of bandages from the floor and run your fingers in search of the edge. You tell Zahhak to lift his shirt; you spare a glance to the wound. “Should I clean it?” you ask reluctantly. You honestly don't want to spend more time on this than you have to, but, as his kismesis, it is the right thing to do. (And, though you're loathe to admit it, he's still your friend in some deranged bastardization of the concept.)

Zahhak observes the burn; you reckon it's bound to scar. “It should be fine,” he says, “It's been disinfected.”

“Good. Now, shut up and let me fix this.” 

You wait for his head to bow before you lean in to get a better look. It's clean for the most part, save for the quickly congealing blood along the edges. It's clean, but the damage is serious. Or at least serious enough for your vascular bag to tighten at the sight of it. You trace a gentle finger around the sensitive, torn flesh, the skin flushed an angry blue. Shit, you've hurt Zahhak before, you have, but not like this. Never like this.

Your skin prickles with goosebumps. It doesn't take you long to realize it's just Zahhak's eyes burning into you. Fucking creepy asshole. When you glare up at him, Zahhak doesn't look away fast enough.

“Can you not stare at me?” you growl.

Sweat shines on your kismesis' face, rolls in thin rivulets down his face to his neck; his eyes remain trained on something that's not you. He doesn't answer, and it doesn't fail to piss you the fuck off.

But, you aren't one to shirk on your kismesis duties, no matter what a sweaty muscle freak he is.

You begin working gauze around Zahhak's torso, checking the tautness with every wrap around. A few seconds in, the stare returns full force, accompanied by gross, open-mouthed breaths. 

You want to hit him. You want to hit him so badly. But, fuck, Zahhak isn't the one you should be hitting. Fucking Ampora. You know that he’s desperate and that Zahhak can be kind of a dick, but your kismesis—your kismesis—didn’t deserve to be barbecued alive. Wrapped in only two layers of gauze, you can still see the imprint of the injury, the deep navy of Zahhak’s blood, and you wish you were there to stop it. Zahhak winces above you; you realize you’ve been fingering the burn and quickly pull away.

“Sorry,” he says and you aren’t sure if he’s talking about his natural reaction to pain or the entire situation itself. Either way, it’s fucking stupid and pulls at your chest in a way you can’t ignore.

“What are you saying, you grubmunch?” You grumble, going back to work and pulling the bandages taut around Zahhak’s torso. “You aren’t the one who should be apologizing.” I am, you think, when you recall your rough handling of him earlier. 

Zahhak shifts and pointedly avoids your eyes again. Damn Ampora to hell. Honestly. You’ve never seen your kismesis like this before and it . . . it isn’t right. Zahhak’s voice wavers when he finally speaks and you can’t stand to hear it because it’s so small, so unsure, so pathetic—

Your eyes widen; your jaw drops. The roll of bandages hits the floor with a plush sound and rolls off until it tapers into nothing.

No. No no no. No. This isn’t a thing that’s happening. 

But it is, you realize with despair. 

You look up and the lips on Zahhak’s stupid, sweaty, (pitiful) face are moving. You don’t realize that it’s your name that leaves his lips until Zahhak’s back hits the wall and you’re pressed closer to him because of it.

“ Vantas,” comes the other troll’s voice as it fades back into focus. “Vantas, what are you—” It’s grating, his voice, and it makes you cringe, but the hint of confusion and breathlessness makes your chest clench.

You aren’t doing this. You aren’t, you aren’t, you aren’t—

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck . . .”

“Vantas?” Confused. Breathless. Unsure. Small. Pathe—

“Shut up,” you ground out finally, your eyes drawn to his lips but never his eyes. “No, seriously, shut up. And, close your eyes, too,” you add as a second thought.

Naturally, he complies, but that spark of irritation that usually lights is quickly doused by the fluttering pulse of your chest. You breath heavily as you lean closer into him, your chests pressing together, your hands curling around his firm, bruised arms. His face, tinted blue across his cheeks, is so close, but not close enough for you to . . . 

“Lean down,” you say quietly. Your hands skim up his arms, his shoulders, to wrap around his neck as you rise onto your tiptoes. Zahhak hesitates, but finally gives to your downward pull.

And, you kiss him. But, this isn’t anything like the kisses—if you could call them that—that you’ve shared with Zahhak in the past. It’s lacking in the ferocity, the hatred, the teeth and tongue and pain that has been the norm. There are only lips, lips pressed gently, tentatively to each other. It’s wrong, so wrong, but that doesn’t stop you from clutching him tighter, from opening your mouth to deepen the kiss.

This isn’t black. This is . . . This is more red than anything.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter against his mouth.

He jerks back. Ducks from under your arms. 

Just as your heart begins to sink, as the breath you didn’t realize you were holding leaves you, you contemplate whether suicide or murder would be the better option.

You stand there awkwardly, still so close together, though now you wish you were on the other side of the planet.

“Vantas . . .”

“Don’t,” you bark, your senses rushing back to you. You step back. “Just don’t.” 

Zahhak steps towards you and the bandages around his torso begin to unravel as he shifts. “Vantas, what—”

“Fucking drop it,” you fire back, making to turn away. You wince when an unintentionally bruising grip pulls you back. 

You whip your head around to yell, inwardly relieved for a more familiar turn of events. The relief, though, is short-lived when you see Zahhak’s face. Instead of the narrowed eyes and snarl you are familiar with, there’s a . . . sadness in his eyes, some kind of hurt. And, it sends you reeling.

Now it’s your turn to be confused. “What—”

“What do we do with this?” Zahhak says quietly, his voice reaching a tone you’ve never heard.

You choke on your planned words.

He wants to . . . acknowledge this. He wants to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, your feelings aren’t entirely black. No. No, he used the word “we.” He feels the same?

You swallow. “What . . . What do you feel about me, of us?”

There’s a moment. The blood rushing in your ears is deafening. 

“I find you repulsive, indignant, and an all-around idiot,” Zahhak answers. Then, his voice turns so soft, you have to strain to listen. “But, perhaps I don’t hate you as much as I should.”

You wince.

He asks, “What about you?”

You don’t know what to do. That stare that has always irritated you wipes your brain clean of all coherent thought and you’re reduced to sputtering and warbling. Your bloodpusher pounds and your throats constricts and fuck, how do you feel, what do you do, oh god what’s going on—

Then, you think of Terezi.

“Nothing,” you finally manage, prying—gently—his hand from your arm. “We’re not doing anything with this, Zahhak. You know why? Because this isn’t a thing. This is . . . temporary madness.” You step away and pointedly avoid his face; you don’t want to see the hurt that you know is there. “None of this happened.”

You’re halfway across the room when you hear Zahhak’s injured murmur of, “All right.” 

You hate Eridan Ampora so fucking much. But, you hate yourself even more.


End file.
